Waking Mornings
by Doll of the Devil
Summary: "There are mornings he wishes for nothing but to remain in bed all day" Ciel-centered - Character Study, Hints of Yaoi, Angst, Trigger Warning: read with care if you suffer from any kind of depression.


**Waking Mornings**

**by Doll of the Devil**

* * *

The mornings are always the hardest.

There are mornings, ever so frequent, he wishes for nothing but to remain in bed all day; he wishes to curl up and wriggle his toes and move his left foot up and down the calf of his right leg until he finally manages to get comfortable. He wants to lie there, a bundle of bones, flesh, hair, and sheets and to forget that there is such a thing as time.

Time, how feeble it really is; and yet, a simple tick-tack of the grandfather clock on his bedside table reminds him that he can_not_, and that there are things he must do. Papers to sign, letters to read, criminals to catch. Someone of his position cannot permit himself to sleep in past four. He is needed by the Queen, by England, by the children of it, by the families of it, by his own.

On hazy mornings such as this, when he wakes before dawn and long before Sebastian comes to wake him with a billowing of curtains and the unforgiving brightness of the sun, he allows himself to wonder if it really, truly, honestly _matters_. If he were to die today – tomorrow – the Queen would find another, the Scotland Yard would remain incapable as ever, the company would continue to produce with or without him at the top, and people would move on. It would be mentioned, once, twice, by busy men or idle women, who have nothing better to do than gossip, and then forgotten. He would be forgotten.

No one spoke of his parents now-a-days.

When the clock continues to tick away time, dread forming in his stomach at the inevitable doom of his butler's "Good morning, young master!_" _that would soon reach his ears, he begins to ponder if he would be missed. Surely the servants would make a fuss, and Elizabeth – dear, sweet Elizabeth - would cry a sea of tears, if only for the fact that she should. But then one day, she would have to cope, and move on, and marry someone else – either because she wished to or because her mother wished her to - to keep the bloodline running clear blue-red.

Would she, his fiancée, one day, forget him too? Would he even cross her mind _once_ if she, that one day, would sit with her husband huddled close near the fire, an infant wrapped in bundles in her lap? After all, time heals all wounds.

And Sebastian – sly, cunning, devilish Sebastian – how would he react if his master simply, suddenly _died_? With the contract unfulfilled, he had no right to claim his soul. Or would he amend that, and simply take what he thought was his? Would he even consider the boy he once was? Think of his life, his scars, his scarce true smiles – did he even remember them now? All milk and honey and sunken ships. Would he remember the feel of his skin, the colour of his eyes, the softness of his hair?

Three well-timed knocks on the door startle him, and he turns and groans and pretends to be deaf to the words directed at him; he crawls beneath his blankets, messy and tired. Tired of what, exactly? How can he be tired at the beginning of the day? His stomach curls with fright and fear and fatigue, and _he does not want to get up. _

He wants to remain lying there and wait. And when he lastly forces himself into a sitting position and stretches his arms out high above his head – searching, reaching, grasping for the spiders thread – and rolling his shoulders, because Sebastian has pulled the blankets away from him – and only his butler can do such a thing elegantly - he begins to wonder if he not just _wants _but also _needs._

He feels as if he has ran a marathon, long and hard, and short of breath he has just barely made it, and is bluntly told that he is to do it again. And he knows, when he starts again, if he starts again, that it is expected of him to continue running a road that ends and yet does not – over and over and over again.

Until… until when, precisely?

"Darjeeling?" he hears himself croak, voice raw with sleep.

"The first flush," his butler replies, and he can hear the smile.

He does not know where the real end is, if there is a true end at all, and he wants to give up. He wants to collapse onto the ground, bones broken and skin blistered and he wants to weep.

He never speaks of them - his parents, that is, but he misses them _so much_. And he questions if any-one will ever miss him like that; the low burning ache and pain, pain, pain of, _why aren't you here? _A wound time cannot heal.

Something inside him breaks and topples and Sebastian turns, halfway through the set-up of his breakfast. He regards his master, cutlery in hand, brows knotted in confusion, and asks him if he is all right.

_No, _he thinks, _No, no, no, make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!_

Instead, he mutters a cold, "I'm fine, Sebastian." And he is. He will always be fine, as long as he bears his family name and wears the ring with all its horrible memories on his finger, reminding him each and every day, he will be fine. Even if he is not at all.

He is a Phantomhive.

He can cope, he can run. He has no choice, really.

Standing still is for the dead; calm and peaceful and _finally there_! But he is not dead yet, he is not dying yet. His body isn't, though he knows his mind is. Or perhaps, he has already lost it and then there is no point.

No point, no point, _there is no point in this._

_But keep running_, he tells himself, _keep walking, steady steps - foot for foot - crawl if you need to._ _You will be fine, it will all be fine. _

There are mornings, mornings, he wishes for nothing but to remain in bed all day, to just wait, because some mornings, he wishes that there were simply no more days.

* * *

**_"Niet stilstaan. Nooit stilstaan."_**

**_~ Floortje Zwigtman, writer of "De Groene Bloem-Trilogie"_**

___("Don't stop. Don't ever stop.")_

* * *

**Additional explanatory note:** When a person in Victorian times died, their family would "sit" with the dead person to watch over them (also to ensure that they were really dead and not in a coma) until they would be buried - an action called "waking". They had many symbolic rituals, such as covering mirrors, closing curtains, and stopping clocks. They also believed that deaths could be predicted and foretold. An example: three knocks would symbolise trouble (and possibly death) coming and when one died, pictures of relatives would be turned face-down so the "spirit of death" could not posses them.


End file.
